


strategic behaviours

by simaetha



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Evolutionary Psychology, First Time, M/M, Manipulation, Why Is Sauron Like This
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-22
Updated: 2017-10-22
Packaged: 2019-01-21 09:35:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12454560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simaetha/pseuds/simaetha
Summary: As if it were the creature’s own will, you think, amused, and smile at Tyelperinquar, observing the slight dilation of his pupils.





	strategic behaviours

You feel a certain pity for incarnates, come to that. The unthinking subservience to the flesh, that seeks to attach meaning and significance to its blank rituals – the spirit bound to meat, chained to its needs and reflexes.

Still, it has its uses. Given this poor clay you have to work with, you have come to understand its panic-reactions, the helpless urge to flee from pain; the sensations it will consider as punishment or reward; the reproductive instinct, and the pair-bonding that facilitates nurture of the young.

As if it were the creature’s own will, you think, amused, and smile at Tyelperinquar, observing the slight dilation of his pupils.

“So tell me,” you say, leaning in. “This matter of marriage among your people – “

He colours, a little.

“It isn’t _inevitably_ attendant upon marriage,” he says, “although some of our loremasters might disagree.”

“I must admit to finding myself intrigued,” you say, looking up at him from under your lashes. You lick your lips, watching his eyes follow the movement of your tongue, then flick guiltily away. “I have wanted to better my understanding of your people, after all – “

His shoulders stiffen, a little. He draws back.

“Are you asking for my instruction?” he says, dryly, trying for irony. His fingers clench, and release, unsteadily. “We _do_ have a library, Annatar, although I doubt you actually lack for knowledge of the physical act involved.”

You sigh, and prop your chin in your hands, letting yourself slouch against the table. Around you, Tyelperinquar’s rooms are their familiar sprawl, tapestries pushed to one side to make space for diagrams chalked onto the walls, half-disassembled projects glittering nearby.

“Tyelpe,” you say. “You know perfectly well that I’m not asking about the _biology_. Which, yes, I do understand, and better than you, probably.” You look up at him again, and bite your lip, deliberately uncertain. “I want to _know_. And there’s no one else I would care to ask.”

He tries to look away, and fails, eyes sliding back towards you. You give him a look of appeal.

“If you’re sure,” he says, at last, carefully, almost reluctant. “You understand that it _isn’t_ only the biology, Annatar.”

But he is already taking your hand, and you smile at him, sweetly, pleased at how easily you predict his response.

***

Kissing is more awkward than you expected, but rewarding enough – you aren’t used to having another so _close_ , all taste and heat. Still, you let your body make the small noises it wants to, pliant, only a little tempted to bite.

Tyelperinquar cradles your face in his hands and touches you – as if you were delicate, or vulnerable. You smile to yourself, caught between pity and amusement, and tilt your head back, letting your hair spill past his fingers.

Pressing against you, he sets his mouth to the bared softness of your throat, and you shiver, pleasantly. A frustratingly gentle nip from blunt teeth, not enough to so much as break the skin, nothing like a real threat.

“ _Tyelperinquar_ ,” you croon, and hide a smile at the tension that runs through him, drawing his mouth up again to your own. He kisses you with absorption, careful of you, despite your studied yielding to his touch.

You want –

When you tug at his belt he pushes your hand away, shifting back. You smooth your expression, hiding your displeasure.

“Do I not please you?” you say, coaxing. Colour stands in his face. “Tyelpe – “

He shivers, and then shakes himself out, trying to laugh, brushing his hair back from his face. You set your hand to his chest, feeling the heart beat beneath his ribcage, muscle and bone.

“Annatar,” he says, ruefully, “you – _that_ is not the issue.”

He sets his hand atop yours, calloused palm against the thin skin, fingers intertwined. You tilt your head to one side, holding still, waiting for his response. His chest rises and falls beneath your touch.

“Do you want this?” he asks. You raise an eyebrow, starting to answer, but he cuts across you, wincing a little but continuing. “I don’t mean – if you’re curious – I don’t know what you feel, Annatar. But if you just wanted to find out – you can stop if you don’t _like_ it.”

You blink, and straighten, giving him a direct look. You’ve removed yourselves to Tyelperinquar’s bedroom – also not unfamiliar, although Tyelperinquar has an unfortunate tendency to fall asleep on workbenches or by the warmth of the forge instead – and the half-drawn curtains dim the light, although nowhere near enough to impede your vision.

“Tyelpe,” you say, flatly.  “I’m not sure you’re physically capable of making me undertake any act I am not entirely willing to carry out.”

He makes a face, rueful.

“I know,” he says. “But – I wanted to say it, anyway.”

You give him a challenging look, waiting, and after a moment, he kisses you again – tentative, at first, but you hum encouragement, and the tension in his shoulders slowly smooths out; he wraps an arm around you, pauses to smile, head tipped against your own.

When he catches your mouth again, he pulls you close, and you let him, twisting fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck to remind him that you _allow_ it. He makes a pleased sound, hand tightening in the cloth of your robes over your spine.

Then he pulls at their ties with his other hand, unpicking the fastenings. You hadn’t particularly dressed with thought to another taking your clothes _off_ , and wear several layers of linen and silk, but Tyelperinquar seems not to be unduly troubled, taking only a moment here and there to tug at each binding. You shift, to allow him better access, as he pushes the outer layers back from your shoulders.

A little awkwardness, as you both try to remove them without letting go of each other; eventually you step back, and shrug out of them, kicking the cloth to one side, leaving only the thin linen you wear beneath. Your hair is already down, but you gather it up and shake it out down your back, rearranging it.

You pause, noticing Tyelperinquar’s glance.

“Well?” you say, amused, with a tilt of your head. You know the form you wear is aesthetically appealing – you made it yourself – but you’ve no objection to his admiring it.

He hesitates, and then grins at you, taking the invitation to look you up and down.

“Of course you’re beautiful, Annatar,” he says, voice warm; almost gentle. He smiles, again. “Although I’d need a closer inspection to really _confirm_ – “

You make a face, and reach up to the collar of your undershirt, unbuttoning. He pulls his own shirt over his head, then steps towards you, leaving you both still half-unclad, kissing your mouth, your throat, nipping at the hollow between your collarbone and your shoulder, sucking flushed marks into the skin.

Almost a bite; a show of strength, you suppose, and yield to it, running your hands over the muscle of his shoulders. You move with him when he backs you towards the bed, until you feel the bedframe, and gracefully let yourself be pushed down to the sheets, resting a hand against the mattress to support yourself.

Tyelperinquar lowers himself with you; then further, dropping to kneel before you, resting a hand on your thigh. You sit up, frowning a little, and he smiles at you, dark hair falling past his face.

You do find Tyelperinquar – pleasing. You’d hardly have undertaken this otherwise, after all.

“What are you doing?” you ask, and he laughs, startled.

“I thought you said you understood the _biology_ ,” he says, raising an eyebrow at you in challenge, and you give him a sharp grin in response.

“Go on,” you say, and he smiles once more, running his hands over your thighs, tugging the last remaining fabric out of the way.

You constructed your form with care: it responds in accordance with its nature, breathing and self-regulating in a manner not unlike the elven form it resembles, unless you make a deliberate effort to the contrary. Doing so now, as Tyelperinquar rubs his cheek against your leg, mouths at your hipbone, would altogether compromise your performance – the Eldar will go to extraordinary lengths for their mates, winning his trust would be _worthwhile_ –

“Go _on_ ,” you tell him, again, your voice very controlled, and he laughs, softly, against your skin. You want – you don’t know _what_ you want, in a moment you will pull him up and _bite_ him, if –

You hiss, bracing yourself against the sheets, when he runs his tongue over your cock, with apparent enjoyment. You don’t quite see what _he_ can be getting out of this, but – some sort of ritualised courtship behaviour, meaningless as flowers, incarnates insist on attaching significance to such things. You’d intended to encourage pair-bonding behaviour, after all.

Tyelperinquar licks you, again. You hold still, breathing fast.

He glances up. “Are you alright – “

“I didn’t _tell_ you to _stop_ ,” you say, glaring, and he grins and complies, dipping his head to take you into his mouth.

You make an inarticulate noise, trying to still yourself.

Tyelperinquar sets a hand to your hip, with gentle pressure, and after a moment you recover yourself enough to retain your self-control, though your breathing sounds harshly in your ears. The body’s response, you remind yourself, you _need_ its reactions.

You reach down, and very carefully stroke Tyelperinquar’s hair, carding fingers through the softly tangled waves. You can _feel_ it when he hums in pleasure.

The sensation is intense, and – separate from you, but _not_ , the experience is entirely of the body and yet you cannot set it aside from yourself, you want, you _want_ –

You shudder, the muscular contraction passing through you, and gasp, falling back.

You are –

After a few moments, you push yourself up, settling yourself against the headboard, waiting for your breathing to slow. Tyelperinquar rearranges himself a little, wiping a hand discreetly over his mouth, and then follows you, flopping down to rest against your shoulder, nosing at the dip between collarbone and neck.

You wonder, rather more vaguely than usual, if this counts as a success; then rouse yourself, and sit up, pressing a hand to his chest as he glances up at you, eyes darkened, mouth still wet. The bed-canopies hang around you both, enclosing, embroidery a dim gleam in the corners; his hair spills like shadow over the pale sheets.

“I hope,” you say, with deliberation, “you aren’t under the impression that we’re _done_.”

He smiles at you, a little crookedly, chest rising and falling beneath your hand. “You don’t _have_ to,” he says, hesitantly. “If you wanted to know – “

“ _Tyelperinquar_ ,” you say, reprovingly, and reach down to his belt.

He cooperates, this time, lifting his hips and pushing the fabric down. You shove the cloth off the side of the bed, together with your own discarded linens, and glance down, a little uncertain as to how to proceed. Should you - ?

Tyelperinquar looks at you, flushed, and you lean in to kiss him, hand stroking at his hip.

His mouth tastes slightly bitter; you start to analyse the protein composition, and find yourself somewhat disconcerted to recognise the compounds you utilised to construct your own form. You pull back, then kiss him again, letting the taste fade, listening to the small sounds he makes, trying to urge you on.

It’s intriguingly different from before: more urgent, less tentative. You shift your weight, leaning into him; he wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulls you closer, hands running restlessly down your back. When you turn your head and nip at his earlobe, tonguing the delicate rim of the ear, he makes a noise close to a whine, and takes you by the shoulders, rolling with you to settle over your hips, weight against your pelvis.

You tense your muscles, pushing up against him, pleased at his gasp. He clutches at your shoulders, and then sits up, with a shiver, looking at you again, abruptly focused.

“I don’t want to assume,” he says, watching your face, intent. “Annatar, if you want to do this, you’re going to have to _tell_ me – “

“Are you going to refuse to follow through _now_?” you say, reaching up and setting your fingers to his lips, tracing the motion as he crooks a smile. “ _Yes_ , I want you to take me, though since you seem set on procrastinating – “

He huffs a sudden laugh, breath hot against your hand, and rolls back, leaning over to the bedside table and rummaging through a drawer, glass clinking against the wooden frame. “If you’d like to do this again some time,” he says, sounding amused, “there are a number of interesting variants which I’d be happy to discuss, not least of which, if you keep trying to hurry me, I’m tempted to see how you’d react to being tied up – “

You roll your eyes, indulgent.

“As if you had any restraints that could even hold me,” you say, comfortably, taking the time to sit up and comb your fingers through your hair - it might be more practical to braid it back, but you’ve noticed the Elves tend to consider hair a secondary sexual characteristic, which seems more relevant to you now than is generally the case. “Try it sometime, if you like.”

Tyelperinquar ducks his head, looking once more on the verge of laughter, and then straightens his back, holding a vial of oil in his hand.

“Let’s see how this goes,” he says, smiling at you. “And Annatar, _tell_ me if it’s not comfortable, I _mean_ it.”

“Yes, your concern for my delicate nature has been noted,” you say, spreading your legs as he comes to sit on his heels before you, uncorking the vial. “Get _on_ with it, Tyelpe, your participation is in fact a required element.”

He laughs, again, and spreads the oil over his fingers – a little of it drips down his hand, spilling onto the sheets – before reaching down, pushing your legs further up and back, giving him more space. You grip at the sheets, letting the headboard take your weight.

He strokes you, first, hand sliding between your legs, slicking over the skin there; you try to open your legs a little wider, arching upwards into the touch. Displaying your form so is – strange, but the sensations are pleasant; Tyelperinquar’s face is – as intent as you have ever seen him, focusing entirely on your body’s responses, gaze flickering up occasionally to check your expression.

You lower your lashes, looking down at him. He hums, thoughtfully, and then presses a finger into your entrance.

It feels – you tip your head back, eyes closing. It feels like nothing much, at first, but – how _very_ strange, to have another inside you, touching you so closely; and something about the sensation is – is –

“Still with me?” Tyelperinquar asks, very gentle, as he works you open. You take a breath, and nod, reminding your muscles to relax.

You, yourself, are certainly not subject to any sort of reproductive instinct – not that the act you’re performing has anything to do with reproduction, as such; a confusion of drives, the tangled urges that the Eldar act out as helplessly as the beasts, for all the meaning and ritual they seek to set around it. Predictable; almost mechanical.

Still, you’re not above _using_ it. And Tyelperinquar –

Having his attention so completely is – gratifying, you can admit. You watch him, making a pleased sound in the back of your throat, grasping at the bedframe to brace yourself harder against it as – as –

He withdraws his fingers, and you exhale sharply, opening your mouth to protest. Then close it, as he picks up the oil again – wiping a hand against the sheets, briefly, making a face as his fingers slide on the glass – and touches _himself_ , biting his lip in concentration.

“Tyelpe,” you say, low and soft; and see him glance upwards, meeting your eyes.

A little rearrangement. You tug him towards you; he settles over you, propping himself on a hand, and you kiss him, a quick reassuring gesture, stroking your fingers down his back, then up again, coming to rest over his shoulders.

He uses his other hand to position himself, and pushes in.

You hook a leg over his back, heel pressed to the base of his spine, and let out your breath, slowly, trying to accustom yourself to the sensation. You spread your fingers; draw them back, tensing the muscle of your thighs against his hips, small testing motions as he presses his face into your neck and pants hotly into your skin.

“ _Annatar_ ,” he says, strained, and you smile, sharp as a knife.

“You’re so good,” you say, “Tyelpe, ahh, you’re _so_ good, here now – “

He moves, and you shudder, rocking up to meet him, finding a rhythm against each other. You clench your hands into fists against his back; almost knock your head against the headboard, and hiss, grasping at him, rolling upwards into each thrust. He clutches at your hips.

“ _Tyelpe_ ,” you say, again, almost despite yourself, and he makes a stifled sound not unlike one of pain, pushing against you, rougher and less measured.

You whine, low in your throat, and arch your back, trembling. It - you _feel_ , you can’t –

Tyelperinquar half-falls against you, and you pull him close, tipping your head back and trying to control your breathing. The position isn’t entirely comfortable; you shift only slightly, feeling disinclined to move.

Physical satisfaction is at best transitory, the body’s reward for indulging its drives. Still.

You stroke Tyelperinquar’s hair, twining a lock of it through your fingers, and consider you might as well allow yourself some pleasure at the success of your plans.

Tyelperinquar sighs a little, eyes closed, relaxing into the touch. You smile, more gently than before.

“Diverting enough,” you say, looking down at him, mouth crooking upwards again at his confused, interrogative hum. “Well. I suppose I can see there’s some appeal to it, after all.”

He blinks, lashes fluttering, and then smiles back, soft and hesitant. The half-light shades his features.

“Was that – “ he starts to ask, pushing himself up on an elbow.

“I don’t have any _complaints_ ,” you say, generously, “though I’d need a proper sample size to draw any real conclusions. We could try it again some time, if you like.”

Tyelperinquar pauses, and then, very deliberately, lets himself drop, weight against your chest; you make a face, and shove at him. He grins at you.

“If you _like_ ,” he says, mirroring your tone, with amusement. He lets himself be pushed off, and then sits up, still grinning at you, looking – bright-eyed, pleased, with an odd, unidentifiable softness to his expression.

Affection, you suppose. That was supposed to be the point, after all.

“Come on,” you say, sitting up yourself, and looking at him, fondly. The sheets are a mess, and you feel more than a little in need of rearrangement yourself, but you still take a moment to glance over him, tracing his features. “Let’s go find the baths. The rest can wait till later, Tyelperinquar.”

 


End file.
